Tattoos and Stretched Truth
by MyFictionalDarlings
Summary: No longer a one-shot. Modern AU. Erik bursts into Christine's tattoo parlor on an emotional, drunken whim, and lies himself into a corner regarding his cat. Hilarity ensues. (Inspired, but not exactly adhering to, a Tumblr post by little-jammes.)
1. Chapter 1: Tattoos and Stretched Truth

It was through a haze of inebriation that Erik stumbled into the tiny tattoo parlor, grimacing at the sound of a too-cheerful bell that hung from the door's handle. His foot caught on the threshold, and if it weren't for years of finely-honed instinctual reactions, he'd have found himself kissing the stained-concrete floor. As it was, he caught himself with a quick two-step and straightened to his full height to compensate for the clumsiness. He swayed only slightly before prowling forward into the shop.

In the background, Bach's _Concerto for Two Violins_ was playing softly. Focused as he was on his purpose, his only thought as he gripped his sketch was that this was an odd music selection for a tattoo shop.

Reaching the counter, Erik smacked his paper down onto the surface with a thud, distantly registering that he'd been more forceful than necessary. The girl behind the counter jumped, startled.

As his palm began to throb, Erik tore his gaze away from his spindly fingers ( _DRAT he'd forgotten his gloves_ ) and found himself staring into the sweetest forget-me-not blue eyes that he'd ever beheld. They were framed by long ( _real!_ ) eyelashes, complemented by precisely-applied winged eyeliner and glitter eyeshadow in pink and silver. The face these eyes belonged to was exquisite, delicate… and turned up to meet his own.

He was suddenly aware that the girl whom he was ogling was looking him full in the face, her eyes bright, wide, and taking him in.

Erik gulped. Had he partaken of a little less liquid courage within the last two hours, he'd have pivoted on his shiny black dress-shoes and been out the door in three strides. As it was, his mind buzzed franticly in time with the violins, seeking the appropriate words to begin this interaction.

She beat him to it.

"Hey… welcome to Palais Tattoos. What can I do for you?"

He had to work up more saliva in order to answer her, for his mouth had suddenly gone dry as a desert. The young woman's voice was a crystalline soprano, soft and musical… and completely entrancing.

"I want a tattoo." As much as he mentally berated himself for his odiously obvious and ineloquent response, he took comfort in the fact that his speech retained its crispness– thankfully, he was not to the point of slurring words.

The woman nodded slowly, still not breaking eye contact. Hesitantly, she tugged at the paper beneath his clenched fist, and he pulled his hand back to his side as if he'd touched molten lava (but without the expletives such a situation would have warranted). "Is this the design you want?"

All he could do was nod. He realized that his staring was quite probably becoming unnerving to the poor girl, but he found it difficult to look away. His amber eyes gazed down at her as she studied his drawing, holding it closer to her face for a better look at the details. She had quite a few tasteful piercings, and though Erik had never been fond of the idea of a metal stud in his face, he found them terribly attractive in hers.

She smiled and nodded again, gaining enthusiasm. "This is very good– did you design this?"

"Ehhm… yes." He cleared his throat and tried again. "Yes, I did."

"It's beautiful." Now she was smiling at him, not the paper. "Do you want to modify it, or is this exactly what you want? I just finished with my last scheduled appointment for the day, so if you want it today, we can get right to it!"

"That would be marvelous," Erik said, surprised that he meant it. When had he ever used the word ' _marvelous_ ' outside of a sarcastic comment?

"Great! I'm Christine!" She held out her hand for a handshake.

"Erik," he replied. It took a moment for him to muster up the bravery to take it, but Christine didn't seem phased. Perhaps she didn't even notice… if she did, she took it in stride.

Erik had never actually felt his heart flutter before, but with the way he felt right now, he wouldn't have been surprised if a doctor diagnosed him with forty-two species of butterfly trapped in his chest cavity.

"Nice to meet you, Erik. Let me get a few things ready, and then we can get started."

The next few minutes would remain ever-blurry in Erik's mind. He must have signed waivers, chosen colors, and made small-talk, but after Christine asked him _where he wanted his tattoo_ , everything else faded from the forefront of his mind.

She was going to give him a tattoo. The most beautiful woman he'd ever laid eyes on was going to _touch his bare skin_ and give him a tattoo. The cocktail of terror, excitement, and sheer vulnerability clouded his mind more than the drinks had done, and the next thing Erik knew, he was lying in a red-cushioned reclining chair, baring the pale flesh of his right hip and praying to whatever god would listen that he would stay calm and not make a fool of himself.

Oddly, it never occurred to him to stand up and leave. Somehow, flight was not an option. He was spellbound as he watched Christine's expressive face and shy eyes as she prepped his flank for permanent inking. While he'd have sworn she'd been nervous about his mask and abrupt manner, she chattered easily to him as she made a stencil of his drawing, finding something in his responses to laugh at and keep the conversation going. How could one person contain so many genuine smiles and kindness?

It wasn't until she'd begun transferring the design to his skin that she asked him a question that he'd been too dazed to dread. "So… Ayesha. It's beautiful. Is that your girlfriend's name?"

Erik blinked, hard. He'd forgotten what he was actually having tattooed onto his skin. Damn. He hesitated, but only for a second. "Yes." She couldn't know. He couldn't bring himself to tell her that it was the name of his cat.

She made a little sound of knowingness. Was it just him, or did she sound a little… sad? No, not sad. Disappointed? No matter. He wasn't thinking clearly, obviously. He tried to focus on the lie at hand.

Christine winked playfully at him. "She's a lucky woman, to have a man who'll get a tattoo for her."

He tried to look dignified rather than flustered. "Ah, yes… well."

"It's a unique name… Ayesha," Christine continued as she opened a new needle.

"Yes. It's Persian. It means "life.'" Good lord, was he incapable of changing the subject?

Another small sound of acknowledgement from Christine, then silence.

"So… she likes cats, then?"

Erik's heart rate went up, and his mouth dropped open in surprse. Christine waited for him to reply, but when she saw his apparent confusion, she gestured at the design on his hip… oh. _Oh._

Erik suddenly saw the image in his mind– "Ayesha" in flowing, elegant script, distinctly arabesque and embellished with roses… and her whiskered, haughty profile just below it.

The scene from hours earlier flashed before his eyes: him, sketching frantically in his basement, chasing drink after drink down his throat to stave off a bout of intense loneliness, fueled by sleep-deprivation and dedication to the one creature that never let him down, while said creature sat on his lap, purring.

Erik cleared his throat and tried to look Christine in the eyes. He failed, and looked down at the feline face on his hip instead.

"On second thought…. let's leave the cat out."

"Oh– are you sure?"

He'd never been so freaking sure.

As she put the needle to his skin, Erik wanted to die.

As he walked out of the tattoo parlor bearing a stinging new tattoo and the number of the prettiest woman he'd ever met written on his wrist in her own ballpoint pen, Erik had never been so terrified excited to be alive.

Yes, he'd lied.

She thought he had a girlfriend, and that he was surprising her with a thoughtful tattoo. The idea was not only patently ridiculous, but the worst twist of fate he'd ever experienced. Yet, to his amazement, he felt gleefully optimistic. Hope was not lost! He'd find a way to come out on top… somehow.

He wasn't completely sure what he'd been thinking when Christine had offered him a business card and he'd demurred in favor of writing her business information on his hand in pen. He had the vague idea that he'd been trying to impress her, and the much-less-vague impression that he hadn't quite accomplished that. But still. He'd find a way out of the worst lie he'd ever told and get a date somehow, even if it meant stalking, blackmail…

Erik shook his head and blinked. He should probably sober up before making any definite plans.

As he strode down the sidewalk of the downtown area, avoiding the light of the streetlamps out of habit, he felt only one pang of regret– that when Christine inevitably came over to his place (because come hell or high water, she _would_ eventually find herself at his place), she would find out the truth– and laugh herself silly to realize that he'd gotten the name of his _cat_ tattooed on his loin.


	2. Chapter 2

**Okay, folks, I guess the motto is "ask and ye shall receive!" Because you asked for more, and my mind filled with possibilities. And motivation.**

 **I'm super glad that you enjoyed this silly little modern AU of mine, and I hope you find this chapter about as entertaining as the last. :)**

 **XXXXXXXX**

Erik awoke the next morning to Ayesha standing on his face and meowing directly into his ear canal, demanding that her loyal slave rise to serve her breakfast— for which he was incredibly, inexcusably late.

Erik groaned and flung his hand up to rub the corners of his deep-set eyes, wincing at the crust that had formed there overnight. How long had he slept? His thoughts were slow and muddled, and his mouth felt dry and fuzzy at the same time. Ah. Right. He'd enjoyed quite a few drinks the previous day.

He gently pushed Ayesha aside and gave her an ear rub to assure her that he was, indeed, conscious. If all he'd done was drink, why was his hip so hot? And _sore?_ It was an entirely unfamiliar sensation. What…?

In a flash, Erik recalled the tattoo parlor, the needles, the frantic violin music that became the soundtrack to his spontaneous afternoon of poor choices!

His eyes shot open, and he tossed his sheets back and pulled his pajama shirt up, unintentionally burying Ayesha with black silk in the process. She hissed in protest, and he hastily uncovered her before turning his attention back to the inflamed skin. There, on his sensitive, otherwise unmarked flank, sat a tattoo in black and red ink, about 6 inches across: _Ayesha_. It was still covered in the clear plastic-wrap bandage, red, angry, and weeping plasma and lymphatic fluid. And was that blood? Or ink…?

He was struck by a tidal wave of nausea at the sight, and quickly drew his blanket back over his loins to cover it again. He pressed his eyes shut and tried to hold his breath to keep his gag reflex from overcoming him.

What. Had. He. Been. _Thinking_?!

He hadn't. That was the problem. He'd never have actually gone through with a tattoo if he'd been sober.

After taking a several moments to gather himself, he was forced to get out of bed by a nip on the hand from his little lady. Damn cat. With a wince and a growl, he swung his legs over the edge of the bed and found his slippers before trudging into the kitchen for a can of Fancy Feast.

While Ayesha gulped down her breakfast, he sat at his kitchen table to nurse a cup of coffee that was as black as his mood. He was an absolute idiot. Sure, he'd done far more than his share of stupid things, but this, _this.._.

He'd thrown around the idea of a tattoo in his mind as a joke now and then, even going so far as to comment on it to Ayesha in a moment of bitter humor: "Well, my dear, as the closest thing I've ever had to a girlfriend, you probably deserve to be honored like one. Perhaps a tattoo would suit? So my utter devotion is permanently fixed on my ugly hide?"

But to actually do it… while inebriated…

As Erik sank his malformed face into his palm in self-loathing, he opened his eyes. There was smudged writing on his wrist. He moved his hand to get a better look.

No. It couldn't have been.

His mouth fell open as he stared at his handwriting, and his coffee cooled as he remembered _the rest_ of the evening.

Christine… the adorable tattoo artist who complimented his work. Who smiled and laughed at his remarks. Who touched him with her lily-soft hands and treated him like a normal person. While he was drunk. She was _real_. As real as the tattoo she'd left.

Erik gave a shuddering sigh and leaned back in his chair, eyes wide. Suddenly, he was no longer cursing his ridiculous, drunken impulse. It was a blessing: it had brought him to Christine. It had made him bold enough to talk to her. And it had quite possibly changed his life in ways he couldn't yet comprehend, especially without a single cup of coffee.

He wasn't sure how long he sat at his kitchen table, staring into middle-distance, but when the gaunt man finally stood to transfer the faded information into a more permanent form, his coffee was cold and Ayesha was nowhere to be seen, her bowl licked clean.

As he carefully copied the digits into his phone, his mind focused. In this new sea of uncertainty, one fact anchored him: he had to see her again.

Erik was careful to clean his tattoo according to the instruction sheet he found on his floor from the evening before. Thought it was different from the other wounds he'd accumulated throughout his life, tending it did not bring back the happiest of memories for him. But Christine had done this for him with her own hands, and that gave him something to cling to. The rest of his body may be dreadfully unsightly and scarred beyond belief, but he would make sure that this healed properly. Her work would be reverenced.

This in mind, he steeled himself against his revulsion, and before he could stop himself, he'd started thinking of it like a shrine to her existence. He felt utterly ridiculous that it was his _cat's_ name that she'd emblazoned on his skin, but there was nothing to be done about it. He'd have to get over it. There was no way he was going through that ordeal a second time for a touch-up.

Still, Erik couldn't quite find it in himself to regret anything about the previous day, given its ultimate results… and for that, he detested himself.

xxxxxxxxxxxxx

Erik made himself wait until the next afternoon to visit Palais Tattoos again.

That, in itself, was a challenge. His mind was a hive of activity, with thoughts of what could be buzzing in and out of his head with no semblance of order or control. Sleep was out of the question. There was only a bizarre mixture of fearful fantasizing about the future and scheming to make said future real, sprinkled by moments of what others might describe as… _giddiness_.

He couldn't help it. His mind felt altered. While he'd done more than his fair share of experimenting, this feeling was like no drug he'd ever taken. While he was in no way incapacitated, able to go about his daily life as usual, his thoughts always came back to Christine. He couldn't help it. Every word she'd said to him was effortlessly memorized and dwelt on. When he'd run out of things to remember about her, he started on things he imagined about her. Inane, everyday things: what she did for fun, what she ate for breakfast. Did she eat breakfast? He was left with a host of questions that nagged at him.

He sat at his piano, impeccably dressed, as he went over his plan while composing distractedly. He'd realized that he had unconsciously made an enormous decision in the last twenty-four hours— he wanted to have something with this woman. That decision terrified him to the core… but he'd never felt this way about anyone, and he'd be damned if he let _fear_ get in his way. Even as he thought about it, he felt a sense of wonder. The Erik that existed last year, last month, last _week_ would have set today's Erik straight with a swift roundhouse kick to the face. And the gut. And also probably the groin. But the Erik of today, the Erik that was born two nights ago, wanted to _sing —_ to sing for sheer joy that such a creature as Christine existed on this earth.

Damn him.

So it was that when Erik pushed the shop door open and heard the little bell announce his presence once again, his heart was lighter than it had been in years.

Christine was tidying up her work area, arranging and disinfecting and being just as beautiful as he remembered. She looked up to greet the walk-in, and— was it just wishful thinking, or did her eyes actually light up a little when she saw him?

She set her things down to come greet him. "Hello, Erik!" His heart skipped a beat. _She remembered his name_. He fought the tide of warmth that seeped into his soul (it felt suspiciously like a child peeing in a pool), but only lasted 1.3 seconds before succumbing. Gladly.

He nodded. "Good afternoon, Christine."

She leaned against the counter, smiling up at him. "How are you today?"

If only she knew the truth. He managed to make it through the ritual of, "I'm fine— how are you?" without embarrassing himself. It was hard when her eyes were so dazzling. She really knew how to show them off, he thought distractedly.

Christine grinned and raised her eyebrows playfully. "So! What did Ayesha think about the tattoo?"

Erik had decided almost immediately that he needed to kill his lie- well, the gist of it- as swiftly as possible. He'd waffled briefly about it on his way to the shop, but in the end, the thought of admitting that the tattoo was for his cat made him feel absurd. On the other hand, continuing to pretend that he had a girlfriend (in order to make himself seem more desirable) sounded ludicrous, utterly exhausting, and counterproductive to his goal.

He cleared his throat. "Actually, she broke up with me." There. Easy.

"Oh no!" Christine's hand flew to cover her mouth as she gasped, and her eyes grew wide and painfully empathetic. For a split second, they flicked downward to his waist, which, coupled with her horrified expression, was not something Erik found particularly comforting coming from a girl he fancied. His mind refocused on the context of the situation, thankfully, and he leapt to the conclusion that Christine was assuming that his supposed girlfriend had seen the tattoo and _then_ broken up with him… oh dear. She looked horrified, and whether it was out of second-hand mortification for him or because it was _her_ tattoo that had been the cause of the fictional break-up, it was not the reaction Erik had counted on.

"It wasn't the tattoo," Erik rushed to correct her. "She never even saw it, actually." Her shoulders, which had been up by her earlobes, relaxed a little in relief. Encouraged to see that his assurance had the desired effect, Erik continued. "She said it had been a long time coming…" He tried to look as regretful as possible, but he wasn't exactly sure what it looked like on the other side of his mask. It wasn't like he practiced facial expressions in front of any mirrors, after all. Maybe he should lay it on a little thicker; garner some sympathy points…?

"She said she was seeing someone else."

It worked.

"I am so sorry," Christine breathed. Her eyes were as soft as her voice, her hand resting on her cheek as she looked at him. He had her— for the moment.

"It'll be alright." Erik tried to find the balance between 'downtrodden by sorrows' and 'manfully stoic' in his tone. Best not to lay it on too thick. He wanted her to like him, not pity him.

He raised his eyes from the floor, where he'd looked away to add to the realism of his words. Christine was biting her lip. He gritted his teeth and tried to focus.

Christine's eyes darted helplessly around her shop before coming back to meet his. "I… do you want to try to turn the tattoo into something else? I've done a couple of cover-ups before…" She gazed up at him apologetically. "We could work on designing something else? I don't want you to be stuck with something that gives you bad memories. I wouldn't charge you any extra."

 _The darling girl_. Erik shook his head and attempted a wry smile. It wasn't something he was particularly adept at. "That won't be necessary right now… I'd best wait for this one to heal first. I think I've learned not to make rash decisions." As the words left his lips, he was surprised to find that they felt like another lie.

"Of course." Christine nodded, still looking entirely too sorry for him.

Then, it was quiet. Awkwardly quiet. Erik was suddenly at a loss for words. How did he keep the conversation going? His goal was to secure some pretense for continuing her acquaintance… but how exactly was he going to accomplish that? Did he ask her out now, or wait until a better time? It didn't feel like quite the right moment… but was there ever going to be a right moment for a deformed, masked man to ask a beautiful artist on a date? How would he even know if there _was_? _When would he have another opportunity?_

He stood there, frozen as his anxiety began to build.

Christine was looking at him oddly, probably starting to wonder why he'd even come to the store in the first place… he needed to do something fast, before she caught onto his charade: that the only reason he'd come was to tell her he'd broken up with his girlfriend that _didn't actually exist_ so she could see that he was… available.

Damn it. What was he even _doing_ here?! His eyes darted frantically around the shop, falling at last on the shelves of product by the register. He cleared his throat before speaking, simply to give himself time to decide was he was going to say.

"Well… actually I came in for another bottle of that moisturizing lotion."

"Oh…" She glanced at the bottles in confusion. "You've run out already?"

"No, no, it's just that… erm… my cat knocked it off the counter this morning… into the toilet." An utter lie, but a rather believable one, he decided.

Christine laughed. "Oh! Well, you certainly want some that isn't loaded with bacteria!" She fetched the bottle and began to ring it up, and while she was distracted, Erik's monkey-brain decided that now was the best time to casually ask her out.

"Listen, Christine—" his mouth was dry again. "I don't mean to be forward, but I was wondering…" He was butchering this! Who used words like 'forward' anymore? Where had his carefully-planned eloquence fled to?!

"That is, I… would you care to… go out for drinks?" He finished lamely. Go out for drinks? What had happened to dinner? He'd had so many more ideas for dates, _creative_ ones, only for _this_ to be the one that came out?

He swallowed as he finally allowed himself to look for Christine's reaction.

His heart sank when he saw that her face had assumed that cautious, careful look that he'd seen thousands of times in his life, when people were faced with a situation they were unprepared for and were afraid of how it might turn out. She was searching for the right words and expression, the one that would get her point across but still be gentle enough for him… Instantly, he was aware of his mistake. He stood stalk-still, but internally his innards felt like a writhing mess of spaghetti. What had he done?

"I— that's very kind of you, Erik. I'm flattered…" _But._ Here came the _but_. "But… I'm not really into being a rebound."

Of course, _of course_ it was stupid of him to ask her out right after relaying that he'd just broken up with someone else! She had every right to be offended, to think he was an overemotional jerk who got over heartbreak in record time and was just lonely and looking for a good time! What an insult to her! Forget the weird mask, forget his skeletal build and imposing height, forget that she barely knew him— it had absolutely been too soon. A solid reason for rejection.

He respected her for it, even as his heart withered.

He was pulled out of his spiral of chagrin and despair as she continued, looking at the floor and speaking in carefully measured tones. "Uhm… I would consider it, though. Maybe in a couple of months, after you've had some time."

What?

He licked his lips. "I— I didn't mean to offend you. I know that was… soon." Maybe he could repair the damage.

"No, it's… I'm flattered. It's nice."

Trite as her actual words were, the shy confidence in her demeanor as she gazed up at him were all he needed to see the truth— she might very well have said yes if his pride hadn't put him in this stupid predicament of supposedly having just broken up with someone else. It was quite possible that she liked him, but she was wisely holding back.

He was at a loss for words. He just nodded once and stood there, stupidly.

Christine gave him a tiny smile, her dark lipstick driving it home to his heart like an arrow or a dart. He couldn't breathe.

Her eyes flickered to his hand, white-knuckled around the neck of the bottle of tattoo moisturizer. He was suddenly self-conscious of the faint pen marks on his wrist, where he'd jotted down her business information two days earlier. She gestured to it. "Do you want my personal number, too?"

His eyebrows shot up, and she eyed him sideways with a smirk.

"Yes, please."

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 **As always, reviews are much appreciated! HUGE thanks to those who have encouraged me in my writing! 3 I wish I could give all of you pretty red roses. :)**


	3. Chapter 3

**Hey, my dudes! Long time, no update... my apologies. I'm currently galavanting around the UK, living the dream. You can thank the bad weather for me having the time and inclination to sit down and write, and the noisy hotel environment for this chapter not being as polished as I'd like it to be. It's hard to concentrate in here.**

 **Anyways.**

 **Tell me what you think, maybe? Sorry if this chapter is lame/too angsty/not as funny as the previous ones. I have the next chapter partially-written, and I promise the silliness will return!**

 **Thanks for reading!**

* * *

Erik cursed himself as he stood in his bathroom, glaring at the twin bottles of tattoo moisturizer on the counter. There they sat, blissfully inanimate, monuments to his mistake.

Feeling stupid about just standing and staring at bottles of lotion, Erik removed his mask and ran the tap. Splashing the cold water on his scarred, boney face gave him something else to do and feel, and was a momentary relief.

But only a momentary one.

Damn his pride.

Damn his drunken sentimentality.

Damn his _face_.

His fist hit the tile countertop and the minor jolt of pain gave him another moment of distraction. His stupid, hideous face. The face that had him in this wreck to begin with— that kept him from normal human interaction to such a degree that something as simple as _talking to a pretty girl_ was a task as foreign to him as deep-space exploration.

And damn it, it was something he was far more interested in.

He was a fool. He'd had the chance to come clean, and what had he done? Imposed some sort of bizarre waiting-period on himself, brought on by a lie— a lie that was told to preserve someone's _opinion_ of him, no less! When had he ever cared what people thought of him? It would have destroyed him long ago if he had… and yet, here he was, desperately managing his image in hopes of a favorable judgement from a stranger…

He blotted the water from his face vigorously and snatched his wallet from his pocket, fumbling for the post-it note that Christine had given him. It was unremarkably neon pink, but her handwriting slanted across it, graceful and delicate in silver gel pen. He breathed deeply.

She had given him her number. She hadn't any reason to do that. Actually, she'd had plenty of good reasons not to. And… well, it felt sacrilegious to say, but he was quite sure that she had _flirted_ with him… and she hadn't had to do _that_ , either.

Erik couldn't resist a crooked smile. He smoothed the post-it note, then stuck it firmly onto the second bottle of moisturizer in triumph.

* * *

After adding Christine's personal number to his phone, Erik tried to compose a text. He wanted her to have his number as well, and it seemed the right thing to do, anyway— to thank her for her… kindness? Interest?

He wrinkled his nose and backspaced, then tried again. He'd just tell her that he appreciated the tattoo and her willingness to work something out, and that he looked forward to seeing her soon… No. He backspaced again.

And so it went.

Over the course of the next half-hour, Erik drafted and re-drafted his text to Christine, unable to do anything but over-think his message. Everything he proceeded to type was either too long-winded for his comfort or much more cold than he wished to come across. He didn't want to come across as needy, or stalker-y… or distant.

Why was this so difficult?

He sent texts all the time for work without a second thought about how they might be read by the recipient, or concern for how they'd feel about it (unless he was actively making sure that they would feel a certain way about it)! This was something he'd never done before.

Caring was exhausting.

Finally, after he'd composed a text that passed his proof-reading a solid 10 times over without finding anything to delete or change, he had a flutter of anxiety and did some second-guessing… and then sent it.

After that, knowing she was still at work and telling himself that he wouldn't hear back from her until she closed, there was nothing else for him to do.

Except look her up on the internet.

* * *

Several times in his life, Erik had wondered what he'd do without the internet. His life (and probably the lives of many others) would probably be much more of a dumpster fire if it weren't for the ability to do light reconnaissance work remotely.

Hell, if he considered living life with a horrendously malformed face to be a curse, how much more excruciating would life in an age without the internet be? That would be the cruelest joke ever played on him by fate. Not to mention that living in a glorified basement would be far less tolerable without it.

So it was that Erik opened up his search engine with gratitude.

With a fake profile he'd created solely for online data-gathering, he found her on Facebook— she used her real name. Her page had some lax privacy settings. He tsked to himself. She needed to fix that.

It was a goldmine of information, though— she had far too much personal information in her profile. He combed through the pages eagerly anyway, noting with satisfaction that her relationship status was "single," that she liked French food, and that she was fond of animals and didn't have too many selfies involving duck lips. She was 24.

She also appeared to have a wide range in her music tastes and was a fan of ballet and opera, with several Broadway shows thrown into the mix of her "likes" page.

The photos she had posted, though few, were telling: several selfies of her and a slightly younger, olive-complexioned girl with curly dark hair spoke of a happy friendship. There were some photos of her and an older, bearded man who shared similar features— her father, no doubt. This, too, looked like a treasured relationship.

There was nothing about her mother.

Erik found himself transfixed as he scrolled further back in time to Christine's adolescence— she'd been tagged in photos from church choir practices and concerts, dance classes, and high school theatre productions… oddly enough, from several different high schools across the States.

One particularly good photograph of her caught his eye— she was onstage, singing, costumed as Belle from Beauty and the Beast. The passion on her face was clear; she was lost in the role. He wished there was video footage of that moment.

She was clearly an artist in more ways than one.

He wondered why there were no more recent posts or photos of her like this in the last few years. Midway through her junior year of high-school, most of her Facebook activity ceased, and when it picked up more a year and a half later, it was considerably altered in tone and subject. The personal involvement in music was at an end.

Internet searches on her name turned up mostly programs for school shows, and an article with a photograph of her as a younger girl, standing with the man he presumed was her father. The type beneath the photo confirmed his intuition, and the article was from the local newspaper of some small town in Minnesota that he'd never heard of, about the novelty of such a marvelous violinist as Charles Daaé passing through their town on tour. It went on to laud his playing and the connection between his Scandinavian roots and the township, and mentioned "his charming daughter" with "a voice as sweet as any songbird" who'd done some accompanying vocals for his folksongs…

He searched Youtube for recordings, and eventually, found one. It was grainy, taken on an old camera or phone, but it showed Charles Daaé busking in San Diego at Balboa park. The man's bow moved with precision and vivacity, and the music that poured from his violin was full of soul and love. Erik listened in awe, then played it again.

To his disappointment, he could find no recordings of Christine singing.

A quick search for the father's name turned up the man's obituary, dated 9 years ago. The time when Christine had stopped being involved with music.

Erik felt a pang of guilt. Suddenly, he felt like he was intruding into Christine's life a little too much, prying into her grief.

Absentmindedly, he ran his fingers through his hair as he reflected on what he'd gleaned. He got the impression that she'd moved around a lot with her father as a kid, probably homeschooled through her elementary years. He felt a bit of kinship with her for that— he'd moved around, too, and knew how hard it was. Still, going from city to city with a beloved father was a lot different than being passed from foster home to foster home.

He closed the tab and sat back in his chair, feeling oddly subdued.

Knowing his lack of self-control, he'd probably dig through her pictures again later, but for now he just felt the need to step away.

Maybe he'd distract himself with some composing… Charles Daaé had inspired him.

* * *

After the second week of waiting, not only had Erik planned a variety of first dates in excruciating, practical detail, but he'd also imagined countless conversations with Christine. Would she appreciate any of his compositions? Did she prefer books or movies? What would he do if she was a fan of the Hallmark channel?

She'd ask about his mask, eventually.

How would he answer? He'd need to keep his cool, certainly. Scaring her away was not an option. But would she make it an easy conversation?

He knew he'd never show her his face. She'd probably puke in the nearest bush or trashcan and that would be the end of things. Nope, no matter how sweet she was, he doubted she had a strong enough stomach to remain acquainted with him after seeing… all of that.

He heard a crash in the next room and spun around to see Ayesha glaring at him from atop the table… and his coffee mug from that morning, broken into three or four pieces on the floor.

"Feeling neglected, little angel?" Erik raised his eyebrows and rubbed his hip pointedly. "I don't see why. I rather thought I'd proved my devotion permanently."

* * *

At the end of the third week, though he'd tried to keep his mind busy, Erik was startled one dull afternoon when he found himself absent-mindedly contemplating another tattoo… just to have some contact with Christine.

He grimaced. This had gone far enough. Surely, three weeks was long enough for a normal person to have recovered from a breakup.

He didn't know, he'd never had one. He supposed he could Google it, but he sure as hell didn't want to be getting relationship advice from Yahoo Answers.

As he furiously deep-cleaned the backsplash on his stovetop, he realized that if he kept waiting he'd go crazy— or he'd have built so many castles-in-the-air that actual, real interactions with Christine would be a let-down— or he'd completely psyche himself out of ever seeing her again at all!

Good lord, he'd better just go see her again and get it over with. He couldn't live like this anymore. If he was going to obsess over interacting with a girl, he might as well be obsessing over things that were actually _happening_.

* * *

What were Christine's favorite flowers? Erik had no idea, but he felt like he needed to bring her _something_.

As it was, he found himself leaving the florists' with a red rose, and he hadn't gotten two blocks away before he was mentally berating himself for the choice.

Too romantic. Too forward. Too intense… Just dramatic enough to signal what she'd be getting into if she went out with him.

Damn it anyway. Let the cards fall where they may, he was doing this.

He hadn't texted her— he wasn't going to sit for four hours composing the perfect series of texts to ask her out. Their personal interactions had been pretty pleasant, and he was feeling audacious enough to try his luck again.

As Palais Tattoos came into view, Erik instinctively began scoping out the street to make sure no one was approaching. Satisfied, he peered into the interior of the shop through the window.

Christine was leaning with both elbows on the counter, laughing.

His heart jumped at her smile.

His heart plummeted into his stomach when he registered that she was laughing with a young man. A very attractive young man.

All of Erik's outrageous optimism fled in that moment. He stood, frozen to the ground outside the shop, still gripping the rose— he wished it would wither away instantly so that he could crumble it into dust. He was once again a cold, dry husk, empty of any feeling… just the way he'd been before, but worse for having felt hope and lost it.

He felt like he was seeing everything clearly for the first time in weeks. He was a skeletal man who wore a mask to hide a disgusting deformity, who'd gotten lonely and emotional and drunk enough to get a tattoo from a girl who just happened to have more common decency than most of the rest of the world and hadn't shoved him away as vehemently as he was used to.

She'd let him down gently.

After all, what was he compared to the laughing man behind the window? He was nothing, he was all the _worst_ things rolled up in a single, unappealing package. Beautiful, kind Christine didn't deserve to be romantically pursued by a monster with a whole lifetime's worth of emotional baggage.

Erik had gone from having butterflies in his stomach to feeling them grow heavy and merge into one cold, still lump in under 30 seconds. He couldn't keep watching the scene before him; he had to get out of there or one of them would see him.

Just as he thought this, he realized that Christine had already noticed him through the window.

 _No. No. Too late._

Her expression was one of surprise; she seemed a little startled… but then she smiled and waved to him. The young man turned to see who she was waving to. His face was much less welcoming than hers. Erik's gaze was drawn back to Christine by her hand... she was motioning at him to come into the shop.

In his new, enlightened, dispassionate frame of mind, Erik was vastly more inclined to walk away and never visit this part of town again.

He was about to do just that, to turn away and wander home and never leave his basement again… but something stopped him. Numbly, his eyes were drawn back to the man in the shop. The goofy affability in his countenance, his confident stance, and the mixture of protective wariness and patronizing good humor that filled his gaze…

That's when Erik knew: if he turned and left now, he would be a coward. He could never live this moment down to himself, knowing that he'd left without a fight. There was no challenge in the blond man's eyes— why would there be? To this man, he was just a weirdo in a mask. If he walked away, that's all he would ever be, and that might be what he became to Christine.

That primal understanding tied him there, unmoving. The lack of a challenge. The assumption. He sure as hell couldn't slink away and shed his dignity.

His jaw felt tight. When had he started clenching his teeth?

He was going to go forward with this. He'd walk into this extremely uncomfortable, awkward social situation and prove that he was capable — worthy— of being seen as rival of this man, whoever he was…. that he, Erik, was also part of the human race, and that he wasn't just some awkward basement-dwelling man playing dress-up. Whatever happened, so be it.

If he lost his dignity, he'd lose it on his own terms.

Erik put his hand to the door and pushed.


	4. Chapter 4

**Hey everyone! Sorry for the long-time-no-update: I got pretty sick the last two weeks I was traveling, and while I got to see Oslo, Norway's non-replica ALW production of Phantom (IN NORWEGIAN! IT WAS AWESOME!), I came home and crashed for like, a month. It took a long time for me to feel strong again.**

 **Anyway, thank you so much for all of your reviews- they are seriously what started me writing again! If you'd be so kind as to let me know what you think of this chapter after reading, I'd be very thankful... I have my reservations about it, but I won't say anything to bias you one way or another. I struggled with this one, we'll just say that.**

 **I do have some ideas about where this is going, but I have some other "real-life" writing projects I'm trying to finish, so... we will see how much time I have in the New Year. For now: I present to you, Chapter 4.**

 **Wish Erik luck! He needs it!**

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* * *

Erik was jarred out of his grim focus by the innocuous jingling of Palais Tattoos' entry bell. Determined as he was, the familiar sound brought him back to the present, to reality… and he realized that Christine's smile had faltered.

Oh. He'd stood outside, staring in at her and this man for an uncomfortably long time... no wonder she was unsure of what to do. Panic set his heart pounding. He could very well have jeopardized everything with his little existential crisis out there on the sidewalk… the blond man's eyes were glued to him now, and either Erik was absolutely paranoid, or the fellow _definitely_ wanted to step in front of Christine and punch his skinny ass into the finished cement floor.

This was bad. Very bad. The walls- were they pressing in on him? It felt like they were. Suddenly, the tattoo parlour, a perfectly adequate space the two previous times he'd been there, felt like a cage. He was dizzy. Blood pounded in his ears as he swallowed down the butterflies that were uncoiling from the heavy lump of his stomach.

He should turn around and walk out. Move to another state or something. Get the heck out of here, and forget Christine- _No!_

No, this was it. He had one chance to secure the opportunity to win Christine over. If he botched this, he'd hate himself forever. Especially if all of this ended with her thinking he was a creep.

If he was going to rescue this interaction and create a better impression of himself, it was high time for some recovery maneuvers. He was quickly devolving into a frightened child once more.

As all the possible worst-case scenarios flashed before his eyes, Erik remembered one of the phases he'd gone through- had he been seven years old? Eight? He'd been certain that he could make a life for himself as an actor. That if only he could get in on the special visual effects and glory of Hollywood, maybe some people might love him from afar, might never see his deformity and fear him for it. He'd stolen books from the public library, devoured them yin hungry desperation… but he'd never gotten the chance to put the things he'd learned from them to use for entertainment. Self-preservation, though? That was another thing. They were useful to survive among people.

He needed to calm himself enough to perform. To pretend he could function like a normal person, without twenty-old maladaptive coping mechanisms from a life of abuse and stress.

 _Erik can do this._ Yes, he could do this. _Deep breaths, remember your posture… hold yourself confidently and confidence will follow eventually._

There. He needed to pretend he'd strolled right in and own it. He was committed now.

"Hi Erik!" Christine flashed him a smile, but he could detect the discomfort in her eyes.

Damn it- now that he could focus again, he didn't like what he saw! Christine was exhibiting nearly the same expression he got from panicked retail workers when he dared to venture into public— on edge, concerned, but trying to gloss over it all with politeness and good customer service, pretending that masked men who looked like they'd stepped out of some sort of horror movie always came shopping there at odd hours of the night.

He wanted to rush to her, to hold her tight and comfort her and convince her that he was fine, fine, and no threat to her at all— but no, no, that was the worst thing he could possibly do under the circumstances! He was a stranger to her. He must remember that. Never mind that she wasn't much more than that to him…

He broke himself out of his wild torrent of thoughts enough to manage a simple, strangled, "Good afternoon, Christine!"

He stumbled over the words, but she appeared to relax. A little. He glanced to his left: the blond man was still eyeing him cautiously. Mentally, Erik called himself an idiot in every language he knew.

Christine appeared to have made up her mind about how to handle the situation, because she suddenly brightened. "Oh! Silly me, I need to introduce you: Raoul, this is Erik. Erik, this is my friend Raoul de Chagny."

The dear, sweet girl… she was covering for his awkward silence! No one had ever done that for him before... they'd just let him wallow in it. Oh yes, this woman was worth any potential pain, however imminent it may seem! He would win her or die trying.

"We kind of grew up together," she continued quickly. "Family friends: meeting up for camping trips, summer camp, stuff like that." At this, Christine cast her gaze fondly back to Raoul, who grinned at her. "He just showed up in the area today and dropped in by surprise! It's been years, and he pops in like he hasn't vanished from the face of the earth! Apparently, I have the Navy to blame." Both of them laughed, and Raoul… _winked at her!?_ Erik watched, dismayed.

"I couldn't let my childhood sweetheart think I'd forgotten about her— had to check in on my little Lotte!" Raoul's laugh was easy, a warm tenor. Erik despised him already. De Changy? It sounded like a variety of pansy. He wanted to gag.

Christine rolled her eyes, still smiling. "Oh my gosh, Raoul, you're still teasing me about that?" Her comfortably folded arms and laughing eyes oozed familiarity.

Erik took a slow, careful breath to relax himself, trying to unclench his fists. It was obvious that Christine… _cared_ for this man… thankfully he was clearheaded enough to know he'd better watch his step until he found out just how much... and in what way. If he was too harsh with Raoul, he wouldn't endear himself to her— and that was his goal today. Win her over. Secure a date.

Right. This called for good manners- and some probing questions.

"Hello, Raoul." As Erik spoke, he reached for the man's hand, offering a very firm handshake. Raoul seemed a little surprised at the pressure which Erik applied, but the seaman's own strong hands were more than up to the challenge, and Erik withdrew feeling distinctly… silly. What was he _doing?_ Trying to challenge the man to feats of strength?

 _Focus, you idiot._

"I'm glad to meet one of Christine's friends." There. If they really were _more_ than friends, that remark might force it out?

All Raoul deigned to bestow on him was a twitch of a half-friendly smile… which grew exponentially as he turned his head to Christine. He looked at her with a big, playful puppy-dog grin as he answered, "Well, actually we got engaged a long time ago! I really should start introducing myself as her fiancé— isn't that right, Lotte?"

Erik blanched. His eyes whipped over to Christine to catch her affirmation— only to see her eyebrows shoot up. She laughed incredulously. "Yeah, when we were, what? Six years old, still playing house?"

Raoul was still looking at Christine and grinning. "Well, _I_ don't seem to remember ever breaking it off…"

"... we were kids, Raoul. Kids play games." Christine was peering up at Raoul like she was wondering if he'd ever actually grown up. Was she uncomfortable now? Erik wished he could tell. Apparently she was surprised by her old friends behavior.

Raoul's grin softened, and he shrugged and shook his head as if to show her he was only kidding. But as his eyes left her and flickered back to Erik, they lost their playful light. Erik realized then that, while nothing official stood between him and Christine, he was being warned off. Gently. But how did Raoul know...?

He could pretend he didn't understand. Plausible deniability was a weapon he wasn't afraid to use. He thought fast.

"Well, anyway. Raoul— welcome back to dry land." Was that witty? Or just as stupid as it sounded out loud? Damn it. He'd make a fool of himself, yet.

At this, Raoul let out a good-natured chuckle. "Well, I don't spend every moment at sea."

Were stupid remarks the correct way to communicate with this man? God forbid.

"Of course," Erik deferred. He realized with significant discomfort that Raoul was still looking him over, and had definitely noticed the single, crimson rose he was still holding. Oh. He hadn't given it to Christine yet. He needed to—

"So, how do you know Christine?" Raoul asked cooly.

The rose would have to wait. He needed to get over his near-heart attack and focus if he was going to come out on top. This would be difficult: Raoul was offering none of Christine's thoughtful social graces to ease his awkwardness.

 _Focus, Erik. Turn on the charm. At least_ pretend _you've got it all together._

"Ah," Erik cleared his throat. When had it gotten so dry? "She gave me a tattoo last month."

He curled his lips into what he thought was an easy smile and tilted his head deferentially as he added, "She's quite the artist. And I've never seen such lovely watercolor effects in tattoos as I saw in her portfolio." Were facial expressions always this difficult? Hopefully they had the desired effect. Never mind that his mask would cover half his expression; it was important to throw oneself completely into the role. Commitment was key.

He made the mistake of glancing over at Christine, whose cheeks were turning a very becoming shade of pale pink. She was obviously pleased.

She smiled prettily and tried to brush off the praise, all humility: "Well, it helps when my customers come in with their own designs and they're actually _well-drawn,_ like yours— you can't imagine some of the things I've had to redesign to make them usable, Erik." She giggled. "I think that's given me a considerable amount of practice."

Erik felt warm under his mask. She had just _complimented_ him _,_ however casually. And she had kept tactfully silent about the… nature… of his design. She was an angel.

"Oh?" Raoul looked to Erik, eyebrows raised. "Are you an artist, too, Erik? I'd enjoy seeing that tattoo."

Damn this man.

Erik forced his lips to recapture the easy smile before it slipped completely off his face and onto the finished cement floor. "Ah... I'm afraid it's not on an area of my body that I tend to show off for others." He raised the eyebrow not covered by his mask.

There. Navy-boy could take that any way he liked.

Indeed, the blond sailor appeared to have lost his air of casual indifference. And some of his color. Excellent.

Raoul cleared his throat… "Well."

The awkward silence was no longer Erik's.

Oh, this felt glorious! Was this what social prowess felt like? He was riding high on newfound confidence! He could take on the world!... He'd actually better get to the point of his visit while he still had the courage.

Erik turned to Christine and presented her with his rose. "Christine, I really just dropped in to give you this…"

He hurried on as Christine accepted the rose. "Due to some miscommunication, I ended up with an extra ticket to the Philharmonic next Saturday evening… I gathered from your playlist here in your shop that you appreciated Brahms and Strauss?" She nodded, staring. He resisted the urge to tug at his collar. It was far too tight. "Marvelous! Would you… would you care to consider joining me? For the symphony?"

"Oh, Erik... that sounds wonderful!" She frowned. "Are you sure, though? I know they're expensive... I'd hate to take it if you could get your money back."

She wasn't convinced... best to allay any concerns right away, on all fronts. Erik was well-aware that he'd possessed a particularly pleasing voice since puberty, and he eagerly used it to his advantage now.

"Money is no object, and I assure you... there's no one I'd rather invite," he purred, voice low and silky.

Christine's forget-me-not eyes grew wide, framed by long, dark eyelashes. It seemed as if she forgot herself for a moment, simply staring into his own eyes as her lips tried to form an answer and failed.

Raoul fidgeted in discomfort. The sound of his scuffing shoes broke the trance, and Christine let out a breathless laugh and looked down at the floor before nodding. "I would love to go, Erik. Thank you."

She rolled the stem of the rose between her fingers, suddenly remembering that she held it, and lifted it to her nose, a little self-conciously. Oh, but she was adorable.

"This is a lovely rose… thank you… I need to go see if I have something to put it in so it stays fresh. I'll be back in a sec!" She whirled suddenly and vanished into the back room, separated from the rest of the parlor by a maroon curtain.

… which left him alone with Raoul. He'd almost forgotten about him. Suddenly, Erik felt his confidence waning. Maybe he could get away with some calm silence and avoid awkward small talk…

"So." Raoul crossed his arms, and Erik noticed just how unsettlingly large the younger man's biceps were. _What was the Navy's work-out regimen like?_ "What did you say you did for work?" Fantastic. As if he wanted to tell this fellow anything at _all_ about his life. He'd have to muddle through as well as he could. Be vague and hope for the best.

"I do a lot of freelance work. I'm a musician."

"I see. You have… quite the voice."

Was that a compliment or an accusation? From the pointed look Raoul was giving him, he assumed the latter. He'd take it as a complement just for spite. "Thank you, Raoul. I've done some voice acting recently, too, which has been… entertaining."

"Hmm."

 _How on earth was one supposed to keep a conversation going? How did people do this every single day and remain_ sane _?_

Erik floundered for another comment, any comment. He cleared his throat. "Christine said you're in the Navy?"

"Yeah. I'm an officer."

 _I should have guessed_ , Erik thought, eyeing the man's bearing. The man probably even had an unironic anchor tattoo.

"So... are you on leave?"

"I'm in town for my sister's wedding- she's getting married on Sunday, so I was able to get the time off."

"Ah. Please give her my congratulations." Had Raoul asked Christine to be his "plus-one" at this wedding? Erik wondered. He supposed he'd find out on Saturday... he couldn't help but feel a small triumph if he'd snagged Christine out of a rehearsal dinner from under Raoul's nose.

Raoul was looking him over for what felt like the fifth or sixth time, and Erik felt uncomfortably warm again. Apparently, Raoul wasn't exactly interested in small talk, either. Maybe he was too busy calculating what kind of masked weirdo was interested in his childhood sweetheart, or something. At least Erik had one small comfort: Raoul was too polite to say anything about his mask. Erik wasn't sure if he could resist shedding blood if this idiot brought up his physical appearance.

To his relief, Christine bustled back into the room the next moment, a large to-go coffee cup in hand to serve as a vase. She grinned sheepishly at him. "I didn't have anything else to put it in here, so… yeah. I can put it in something prettier, like it deserves, when I get home."

"I'm sure it will be fine until then, Christine." She'd take it home? It was his heart that felt too warm, now. Was he suffering from hot flashes?

She positioned the rose until it sat just-so on the countertop, then her eyes flickered up to meet his own. "Thank you, Erik. I'm already looking forward to the symphony."

"As am I," he breathed.

The moment of bliss was over too quickly again as he remembered Raoul's presence. They broke eye contact, leaving him aching inside.

But he had so much hope, now! He'd accomplished what he had come to do… he'd asked Christine out. She'd accepted… and he'd showed up Navy-boy, who clearly felt some jealousy. Imagine! A perfect male specimen, equipped with good looks, history, and social skills, felt jealous. Of _him!_ He felt like Alexander the Great might have after a victory: he'd come, seen, and conquered. Now he just needed to exit the scene before the sheer elation caused him to screw something up.

Suddenly, Erik was aware of more awkward silence. Yes, definitely time to get the hell out of here.

He cleared his throat. "Well, Christine, I'll see you Saturday evening. I'll text you later to sort out the details. Until then… I wish you a lovely week."

His voice caressed her like a living thing, and he saw her shiver. She pushed her dark hair back behind one ear. "Thank you, Erik. I— I'll see you on Saturday."

Satisfied, and feeling like he was walking on a cloud, Erik nodded to Raoul, who stood uncomfortably by, watching with growing unease. "Nice to meet you, Raoul. Good luck with your sisters wedding."

Erik paused in the doorway and half-turned, as if on an afterthought. "Oh, and de Chagny…"

Raoul looked up, his face strained. "Yes?"

Erik looked at him, smirked, and mustered up the most genuine tone he could.

"Thank you for your service."

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 **Thanks for reading! Please shoot me a review if you can! 3 And have a happy New Year!**


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